


Simple Gifts

by Sinope



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #impalefail, 5 Things, Birthday, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Phil Coulson became disillusioned with birthdays, and how Clint Barton came to change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Simple Gifts (Chinese Translaiton)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475296) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



**(eight)**

Phil's mom agrees to let him have a Captain America birthday party, and it's the _best thing ever_. She frosts a round cake with the colors of Cap's shield, and all the plates and napkins are in festive shades of red, white, and blue.

(An embarrassing number of years later, Phil will realize that she agreed so easily because it meant buying discounted Fourth of July supplies. But at the time, he's bowled over with grateful delight.)

Phil invites everyone from his second grade classroom, even Andy Thompson, who tries to trip Phil every time he passes his desk. Most of them show up, small presents in tow: Hot Wheels cars, Action Man outfits, a bag of olive-green army men, the generic sort of boy's presents that you buy for someone you don't really know. Phil thanks everyone politely.

When the party's over, and the last smudges of Neapolitan ice cream have been licked from Phil's lips, his mom presents him with her own gift: [a wind-up Captain America doll](http://www.landlcollectables.com/catalog/images/SuperHeroes/MSHMIBCapAmerTrike120325Large.jpg) that pedals fiercely across the table. "Did you have a fun time with your friends?" she asks.

Phil nods, focused on winding up the toy as tightly as he can, to see how fast it can go.

"Do you have a favorite friend?" she prompts.

He looks up at her like she's a complete idiot for asking. "Cap's my favorite friend," he says simply.

His mom smiles, but there's a shadow of soft sadness in her eyes.

 

**(eighteen)**

Phil's just graduated from high school, he's got a full ride to UIUC, and he's going to get to vote in the next election. It's a good summer to be alive.

Maybe if Phil repeats that to himself enough times, he'll start to believe it.

He knows he's being stupid. High school relationships never last through college; everyone knows that. He just --

He just wishes it hadn't happened on his birthday, that's all.

The problem was that the whole plan revolved around his birthday. Phil outgrew parties years ago, but his parents still treated him to a special dinner out, and this time, Sheila came with them -- beautiful Sheila, with her wicked grin and her strong, able hands. Phil said he would be watching TV at her place afterwards, which everyone involved knew was a complete lie. He was finally going to go all the way, just like all his friends.

Sheila lit pretty candles, and she wore some kind of flowery perfume, and she guided Phil's hand over her breasts and between her legs, and it was perfect, except for the part where Phil couldn't get hard -- not until he closed his eyes and imagined a different person and place.

She finally sat up with a sigh, biting her lip like she did during tricky pre-calculus problems. "It's really not me, huh. You're gay or something?"

Phil's cheeks burned. "I'm -- it's not --"

"Whatever you say." She began to tug her blouse back on. "Look, I know some girls can do this, and you're a really nice guy, but I need ... more, I guess. I'm sure there'll be plenty of gay guys in college for you to meet, so you won't have to pretend."

"I wasn't pretending with you," he says, and means it. He loves Sheila's steel will and her hidden smiles.

This time, her smile isn't hidden, and it isn't particularly happy, either. "Then I hope that someday, you get to see the difference between this and what it should be like."

He doesn't have anything to say to that.

 

**(twenty-eight)**

A year out of the active combat of Desert Storm, Phil is getting restless. So when Nick Fury visits him on base at Fort Hood, it comes as a welcome relief to a monotonous week.

"Sergeant," Phil greets him warmly. Nick's wearing a large pair of sunglasses indoors, and Phil doesn't have to wonder what they're hiding; he was there when the shrapnel hit. At least it's better than the ugly white medical eyepatch he was wearing for the first month.

"Not any more," Nick says. "They finally figured out how to persuade me to accept my honorable discharge."

"And here I thought you couldn't be bribed."

Nick snorts. "That's because they hadn't tried bribing me with an even better job."

Phil's eyebrows rise slightly. Nick was always one of those guys who lived, breathed, and bled Army. "What, they decide to skip the formalities and appoint you Colonel?"

"Better." Nick leans against Phil's desk, comfortable as a cat who knows he's already cornered his mouse. "Ever heard of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?"

Phil hasn't. Nick explains.

An hour later, when Phil's packing up his quarters while they chat, Nick pauses. "Not what you were expecting from my visit, right?"

He's clearly expecting a specific response, and Phil has no idea what it is.

After the silence stretches long, Nick snorts. "This is where you say, 'I was hoping for a birthday present,' and I say, 'wasn't a job offer enough of a fucking present?' But since you clearly forgot your own damn birthday, I'm not going to worry about it."

"Oh." Phil's fingers falter in the middle of folding a shirt. "I guess I just didn't think about it." It's not even a conscious act any more. Ever since he outgrew an age where gifts guaranteed happiness, birthdays have always felt hollow to him, and it's not fair to expect his friends to change that impression.

"Jesus," Nick shakes his head, but his grin is playful. "Keep that up, and we'll have the other agents believing you're a robot within the year."

"I'll take that challenge." Phil forces his voice to sound just as playful. This is something he can do, and achievable goals are always the best kind. Certainly far preferable to wishes.

 

**(thirty-eight)**

At 7:30 a.m., Phil walks into his office to find two changes from the night before. First, the enormous pile of "paperwork to read, file, submit, and/or incinerate" that perpetually towers over one side of his desk has been transformed into a stack of manilla folders, each marked with a colorful label in shades of purple and pink. Second, resting innocently next to his computer, a still-steaming mug of coffee has been topped with a purple confetti donut.

Phil's only been working with Barton for a year now, but it didn't take long to learn the sniper's fondness for purple in every possible situation, so his benefactor isn't much of a mystery. The coffee and donut are a pleasant surprise, but not an unprecedented one. It's the paperwork that stops Phil short. Assuming it's filed correctly -- and, for all his reckless demeanor, Barton knows when to be a professional -- it must have taken hours, sometime in the small hours of the morning.

Now, though, Barton is nowhere to be seen, so Phil boots up his computer, takes a bite of his donut, and prays that today will be, against all odds, a good day. He'll thank the junior agent later.

Phil spends a contented morning reading through reports, enjoying a near-total absence of interruptions. His phone rings so infrequently that, once or twice, he picks it up to confirm that it's still connected. Then, at one o'clock, one of the agents down the hall knocks on his door. She holds out a stack of to-go boxes, topped with a Coke that gleams with fresh condensation. "The cafeteria told me to bring this up to you. Did you order lunch?"

Suppressing a smile, Phil can only shake his head. "Something like that. Mind leaving it on the desk?"

He intends to keep working for a bit, but the smells coming out of the boxes are too enticing to ignore. The largest box contains a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and creamed corn -- the kind of food he learned to love in Texas, but rarely indulges in. The next box contains a small, cheerful green salad; the final box, a generous square of peach cobbler.

Phil thinks back to an afternoon several months ago, when he'd joined Barton in the cafeteria for lunch to review some paperwork between debriefing sessions. The cafeteria only made cobbler on rare occasions, and he'd sighed in happy appreciation. He hadn't thought that Barton would remember.

The food is about as delicious as government cafeteria food can get, and Phil returns to his work with renewed energy, though Barton's motivation for the special treatment still eludes him. He hasn't misbehaved any more than usual lately, so he isn't atoning for something wrong; maybe he's trying to butter Phil up for a special request? Phil shakes away the thoughts and tries to focus on his reports. It's not like Barton even needs peach cobbler to get on Phil's good side; Phil already has a soft spot for the younger man that goes decidedly beyond the bounds of professionalism.

By the time that Phil hits five o'clock, the combination of organized filing, phone silence, and lack of interruptions have helped him wade through the entire backlog of documents, and he finds himself suddenly with nothing to do. He looks at the clock a second time. Maybe he could leave on time, for once -- check the newspaper for a jazz concert, or whatever normal people do with evenings out.

The knock on the door almost startles him. "Come in," he calls, and finds himself blinking up at the very man who's monopolized far too many of his thoughts. Phil can only stare at his outfit. "Is that … a real suit?"

"You don't have to sound so shocked," Barton grumbles.

"Oh, no, I'm just surprised that you couldn't find a three-piece suit in bright purple," Phil shoots back. "So what's the special occasion?"

A flash of frightened blankness twists Barton's face, then disappears just as quickly. "Well, I -- I mean, I was hoping that since you had the day free to catch up on things, you might be able to go out for the evening."

"... With you," Phil completes. Suddenly, all the small pleasures of the day add up and take on a new light. "You want me to go out with you," he repeats.

Barton tenses even further -- though Phil's pretty sure he just got asked out, so he might as well start calling him "Clint." "It doesn't have to be, you know, _going out_ ," Clint says hastily. "Just a birthday dinner. If you don't have plans. Cake totally optional. I looked it up in the manual, and it said that interpersonal -- well, you know -- was okay, as long as you're not my boss. And I'm babbling a lot, aren't I."

"Just a little." Phil can't suppress a smile, and the sight of it seems to relax Clint. "Would you believe me if I said that I forgot about my birthday completely?"

Clint snorts. "Not really. I mean, my own birthdays were crap when I was a kid, but I always figured you'd had piles of presents and party hats and all that shit. I, uh, didn't actually get you a present, by the way. All the really fancy Captain America stuff is way out of my price range."

Phil shuts down his computer as he stands up and walks around the desk, meeting Clint's eyes. "I figured out pretty early that birthdays aren't about what you get. They're about who you're with. And so far, this birthday might turn out to be my best one yet."

"Oh," Clint says. His smile is almost shy, and Phil can't wait to coax it further into the open. "So ... dinner?"

"Yes."

 

**(forty-eight)**

"So I had this idea," Clint says, halfway through an rerun of _My Fair Wedding._ He's sitting next to Phil's hospital bed, hand intertwined with the hand that doesn't have an IV running out of it.

"Oh no," Phil jokes. He'd say that he's come to terms with the fact that Clint insists on celebrating all of Phil's birthdays with style, but really, it's more than that. He loves knowing that Clint loves him enough to make each birthday extra-memorable -- no matter how much Phil protests at the time.

"See, I remembered that photo that your mom showed me, of your second-grade birthday party --" (" _Oh god,_ " Phil mutters) "-- and that awesome Captain America cake that she made. And I thought, well, how can I possibly top that? _With Captain America himself jumping out of a giant cake for you._ "

Phil blanches. "Tell me you didn't."

"I didn't. Though your face right now makes me wish I did. But the hospital said that you're okay to take multiple visitors, so I might … have organized a party."

"You invited Stark, didn't you," Phil says flatly, and Clint just shrugs.

"He offered to pay for the food."

(This is how they've been coping for the last two months, while Clint sat by Phil's bedside and tried to forget the initial shock of believing that Phil was dead, however quickly Nick revealed the truth after. They joke, and they tease, and they pretend like nothing changed. Phil pretends that Stark's still an egotistical brat to him, even after seeing Tony trembling and undone with relief.)

The nurses help Clint wheel Phil's bed into a larger room for visitors, all his medical equipment at his side, and Phil finds a crowd waiting there for him. All the Avengers are present, save Thor; Pepper greets him with a delighted smile; Nick looks away from his conversation with Maria and Jasper to nod in approval. Then Phil looks over to the corner and sees his mother, seventy-six and still gazing at him like he's the center of her universe, and it's more than he can take. He'll blame his pain meds for the tears, later.

For now, he seeks out Clint's hand and squeezes it. "You got me the best present I could imagine."

"I guess that's only fair," Clint says back, soft and perfectly content. "Because that's what you've already given me."

 

(the end)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Phil! Thanks to Feelschat, especially Fire and Moiraine, for the help and encouragement.


End file.
